Page 101 of Darkness

Leary finally spoke after an unnervingly long silence. “I didn’t give any orders. If he’s missing, we’re not responsible.”

Fuck. Blaming the task force allowed the illusion of Morrisey being okay.

“Don’t touch the apartment,” Leary continued. “I’ll get a team over there, see what we can find. Are you sure he’s missing?”

Oh, the nosy neighbor was going to love having a forensics team over here.

“He’s not answering his phone. As many times as I called, if he could, he’d have picked up and yelled for me to leave him the hell alone. He’s also not at the compound.” A possibility occurred to Farren. “Boss, let me call you back.” He disconnected and tried Morrisey’s number again.

Ringing sounded from the back of the apartment. Farren tracked the sound to the bed. The phone sat in the back pocket of Morrisey’s blue jeans, lying on the floor, along with Morrisey’s wallet, a handful of coins, and an old receipt. The fraying and faded ink suggested the paper rode in a washing machine a time or two.

Farren called Leary back. “Everything’s here.” He paced through the apartment to the front door. “His wallet, cell phone…”

“I’ve dispatched a team. Wait and share what you know. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Farren hung up. Nervous energy wouldn’t let him be still, but he dared not touch anything lest he somehow damage valuable evidence.

He’d been urged to see Morrisey as the enemy a few hours ago. Morrisey wasn’t an enemy, though. In his heart of hearts, Farren believed. They’d started off as reluctant partners, suspicious of each other, but their trust had grown, hadn’t it?

Farren wandered around the bedroom. Clothes everywhere, an empty coffee cup. A brochure depicting a resort in the Bahamas. Not the kind of adventure Farren thought Morrisey might plan for himself.

Pictures on the dresser caught his eye. An older man and woman with a younger version of Morrisey. All smiling. Morrisey wore a cap and gown. Graduation? His adoptive parents?

Another photo showed a more mature and broadly smiling Morrisey, arm wrapped around a handsome blond man—the man from the oil painting. Without the photographic evidence, Farren wouldn’t have believed Morrisey had ever been so happy.

Parents dead. Lover dead. Farren knew the feeling. Turned out they shared even more in common. They’d also both lost a home. To be totally honest, Morrisey might have lost three sets of parents. Did he know?

Farren meandered to the window, looking out over a vacant lot ringed by trees. In early fall, the leaves were probably gorgeous, in colors of red, yellow, and gold. Like everything else, leaves lived and died, to be replaced by more the next year.

Now, in June, the straggly tree outside the window sported leaves. Did Morrisey often stand in this spot, enjoying this view? Where was he? They hadn’t bonded, not really; still, Farren closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Maybe he imagined the scent of Morrisey in the room, or maybe the scent lingered from the sheets and clothes. The scent took on a dank odor, the room beyond Farren’s eyelids darkening. Cold swept over him. Damp. Dark.

Hungry. Morrisey was hungry. And thirsty. Anger tingled along Farren’s nerves. His own or Morrisey’s, he couldn’t say. Wherever he was, Morrisey didn’t want to be there.

Farren homed in, straining to see in the darkness. Closed eyes.

Those eyelids flicked open.

Revealing amber fire.

Morrisey.

Chapter Thirty-three

Farren hung around until positive forensics found nothing helpful, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and trudged out of the apartment. The woman from earlier peeked out before quickly slamming the door.

She seemed the type to know information if she constantly watched the goings on at her neighbors. If she’s seen anything off, she’d tell all—to someone else. Farren rode the elevator to the lobby and strode out the front door. Cool air bathed his face. He’d not even realized how sweltering the apartment had become with a six-person team there.

He returned to relatively cool June morning temperatures. By noon, heat and humidity might make the city nearly unbearable. He stood on the sidewalk, rocking on the balls of his feet. What should he do now? Whatever, it had to be something. Inactivity didn’t sit well with him. He checked the time. Ten a.m.

If only he could see more than Morrisey’s eyes in his mind, get an idea of where he might be.

Feeling someone’s gaze upon him, Farren turned to the left. A block down, a woman wearing a hoodie and sunglasses stood frozen, staring in his direction. The moment Farren focused on her, she turned and fled. Although Farren hadn’t gotten a good look, he’d put money on her being a traveler.

He quickened his steps, giving chase. By the time he got to where she’d stood, she’d gone two more blocks and again waited. She didn’t run, enticing Farren to follow.

And do what? Walk into a trap? He tracked her again. This time, she disappeared inside a bar. A bit early for happy hour. Sensing only one traveler, Farren followed her inside.

Nothing. Damn it! And damned if Farren even knew why the woman piqued his interest.

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